Category Archives: On Life

All I’m askin’

On Life
A cold day in Paris

The French have a saying. “Pfffft.”

Okay, saying is a stretch. It’s really more a sound of derision–the expulsion of emotion in a puff of hair through the lips. (Seriously, it’s a thing.)

Several months ago, the phrase “the new normal” seemed quaint and clever. Isolation. Lockdown. Change.

The new normal.  Pffft. We had no idea. 

I thought of writing something at the beginning of this journey fifteen weeks ago. And then the cacophony of voices erupted from the internet. How could I compete with “Some Good News” by John Krasinski? 

But that was really only the beginning of the great disgorge. It’s as if staying in our homes has caused a divergent response in what once felt like loud talking has now become maniacal screaming. Here me or maybe I don’t exist! And that’s when I noticed something. Something disturbing. 

Some of the caustic posts are discomfiting enough all by themselves but I began to see a pattern. The two-by-four between the eyes moment came when I read a post full of the words “anti” and “pro.” 

When did we start choosing titles over traits?

When did we come to believe that “anti” and “pro” statements are adequate descriptors of who we are?

Shakespeare coined the phrase about wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve. Someone unable to hide how they really feel. Is it just me or have we magnified this ability and turned it into a cultural phenomenon? Our opinions become our titles we wear like badges on our chests to distinguish what camp we live in, who we vote for, what we vote for, who we hate, what we hate… 

I’m “anti-…” “I’m pro-…” 

We have chosen titles over traits.

Who we are and how we see others has been compressed into inane descriptions of our opinions. I don’t want to be defined only by what I think. I want to be defined by who I am. Who I really am. I’ve worked hard to love better, to laugh more, to listen harder. And I know a lot of others who are involved in the same tough work. But it is beginning to feel as though all that work goes out the window if my “anti/pro” statement doesn’t align with someone else’s. 

Pfft.

Is it possible to go back to traits?  I’m talking about things like kindness, honesty, respect. You want to spell that last one don’t you? Or sing it? With abandon? Throw in a finger snap?

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

And then, of course that makes me think of her. 

Oh yes, the indomitable Queen of R&B. The great Aretha Franklin. Do you see what I did there? I gave her a title. “The Queen of R&B.” I promise I did it on purpose. I’m about to prove a point. Technically, Aretha is going to prove my point. I could not do this moment justice. You’ll have to see for yourself. Watch this!

There’s no way a woman who changed the music industry with her 1967 release of “Respect” could be relegated or defined by a title. It’s a nice title but still—it doesn’t come close to defining who she was. The “Queen of R&B” rocked the Grammy stage in 1998 as “a stand in” for Luciano Pavarotti and smashed it. Aretha a “stand in?” Pfft. 

The so-called Queen of R&B shook the roof and swept the audience with opera. I want to be like Aretha. I want to be defined by more than titles. I want to be known for my contributions not captions depicting my opinions. I want to learn how to love better, to laugh more, to listen harder. And I think Aretha nailed it. A little more respect has to be a great place to start. 

No more titles. They’re just so “pfft.” 

Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not opposed to opinions. But can we have more? Can we expect more? Can we be more? I care what you think. But more than that, I care why you think it. I would rather know you. The you beyond the titles. 

Unprecedented: adjective

life in the UK, On Life

“never done or known before.”

The landscape looks different depending on where you stand. This is applicable in wrestling with a vacation destination and equally so when contending with the truth from an event in our past..

I am struck by the extreme vantage points as I read the opinions of close friends, acquaintances, people from my past and present. There’s a militant strength on both sides. “Take this seriously,” shout some of you. “Make the media stop freaking us out! It’s just the flu,” others scream. Then there are those dancing somewhere in the middle posting memes about beer and toilet paper, giving us a chance to smile and breathe if only for a split second.

The master bedroom of our house is on the third floor and our house sits atop a hill overlooking South London. We stand at our window in the early morning and look down on rooftops, tendrils of steam rise into the cold London air, like flags rising on masts to furl in the wind and declare life below. On our way to bed, we look out our window and a sea of millions of colorful lights twinkle in the distance like fairies watching over the masses. Skyscrapers become the stuff of puzzles. The lyrics of Bette Midler’s song “From a Distance” find a home in reality.

From our third floor rooftop view, the world looks normal. All is as it should be. Reality is setting the alarm to get up for work. Scheduling a trip to the theatre next weekend. Making dinner reservations at our favorite Turkish restaurant down the street. Only two floors down, the view changes drastically. On the first floor, images flash on the news and words from solemn strangers paint a far different picture. Most recently, a story of a neighborhood in Italy, the inhabitants have been forced to stay in their homes under a government lockdown. Can we even imagine? And yet, they have been heard singing, blending their voices and instruments into the streets below. Uniting through music and keeping them together as their economy, plans, maybe even dreams shatter around them.

I wonder if this whispers of a previous time. Never before have I known anyone to have to cancel a memorial service for their 45 year old husband who has died suddenly out of a conscious decision not to put anyone at risk. March 16th’s memorial for Dave has been cancelled. There was a wedding in three weeks, now postponed indefinitely. The bride saddened, mourning a day that was supposed to be the happiest day of her life.

I was speaking with a colleague yesterday (the UK hasn’t suspended school yet) and she used the word “unprecedented.” It definitely feels like that. Unchartered waters. High school sports suspended. Schools around the world canceled regardless of weather conditions. And yet, history whispers of moments when such chaos and confusion have altered lives, stories, and families. It is a rare moment to meet a survivor of global tragedy. Perhaps for that reason, we steel our hearts and our determination.

It would be much easier to stay on the third floor with the expansive view of a silent sparkling civilization. Of calm and peace and rationality. Much easier. And although even my parents cannot recall a time when food and goods were rationed, such living conditions are not entirely unprecedented. History is awash with stories across the globe of opportunities missed. When tragedy has struck and the thin vein of humanity went into hiding. In this current unprecedented moment, we have opportunity again.

I hope and pray we allow ourselves the space for our opinions to change. I hope and pray that if things do change, we transfer our strength of opinion into strength of community and remember, unprecedented or not, and like it or not, life is only lived out on the bottom floor.

The Queen’s English

life in the UK, On Life

Photo by Suserl just me from FreeImages

Halloween, at least the American version, has jumped the pond. People put a lit Jack-O-Lantern on their porch and hand out candy to those dressed in costumes. Only they don’t dress in “costumes.” They call it “fancy dress.” We noticed this a couple of weeks ago on an outing. We passed a pub with sandwich board advertising a Halloween Party and “wear your fancy dress.” I had seen other signs on thrift stores for “fancy dress” and wondered if they sold prom dresses or cocktail wear? Which then made me wonder how often the common British folk were required to wear “fancy dress,” and should I start to worry if we ever were invited somewhere. The sandwich board regaling “fancy dress” in the same sentence as Halloween put my anxiety regarding dress code requirements to dinner parties at rest.

Translation: Fancy dress simply means, “come in a costume.”

However, this led to an interesting exchange in our house several days later, and I thought I might use this opportunity to practice dialogue. My day job is a math teacher (maths teacher in the UK) but I like to write. Someday, I may even publish a second novel (I have started it…about 37 times. And finished it…twice. Stay tuned.)

Here is one more example that the citizens of Great Britain speak a different English…

David is gone for three days. It may not sound like a big deal, but he is the one who has kept the rest of us alive. Grocery shopping, meal planning, dinner execution. Literally, keeping us alive. It’s a job I’ve done before. A point the two of us have discussed recently with great overtones of irony. But, one cannot subsist on irony, so, I tie on the apron, and get to work. Dinner for us girls. I haven’t had to focus on work for the past week so I have time to visit the store, and plan a meal. Sausage and butternut squash risotto. The recipe called for red wine. Sold.

I’ve missed the creative outlet of cooking. Not that I’m ready to take over the task of keeping us all alive. I am probably enjoying it because it’s not something I’ve had to do everyday.

Dinner finished, my two daughters and I sit down to eat.

“Are you girls excited to go to Wicked in a couple of days? And just so you know, my friend from work told me it was going to be way better than the musical we saw here in Wimbledon.”

“Oh really?” My youngest doesn’t look up from her dinner.

“What are you wearing?” My middle daughter joins the conversation.

“I’m dressing up. “ I assume this means conversation is in full force, so I continue. “It is in Central London this time and not a matinee. So, dress up.”

“In a costume?” In the incredulous tone of voice only a teenage girl can fully and wholly articulate.

“Um, not a costume.” My age is showing and I’m trying not to sound confused. “More like fancy. More dressed up than before.”

“Fancy dress?” Both girls are now looking at me.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“So a costume?” A small choir of two teenage girls in unison.

“Why would I wear a costume to the theatre? I’m not planning on joining in.” Do you ever have that feeling like you are missing something relevant? Both girls are now staring at me. Awkward half seconds tick by. I’m wondering how long they have known me. Have I ever worn a costume outside of a Halloween Party? Why would they even…and then a flash of light and I get it.

Images and lines from Abbot and Costello, “Who’s on First,” flash through my mind in rapid succession. “I don’t know…no, I Don’t Know’s on third…”

The only rational thing to do at this point is to carry the entire conversation on my own because I now think it’s hilarious.

“Why would I wear a costume?” I ask. And before anyone can answer, I keep going. “But you said you were wearing fancy dress…” I change the pitch of my voice slightly. (Think King Julian of Madagascar.) And I thoroughly amuse myself as I proceed to parody the best duo in comedy.

In mid-stride I hear, “Like Who’s On First. I get it.” At least my children are educated. But her recognition can’t slow my roll. I feel as though I just found my stride, so I obviously keep going. Another two lines at least.

“Right, fancy dress…so a costume…Why would I wear a costume?…”

Both girls have gone back to eating. But that is the beauty of writing. I get to re-live what I think was a hilarious interlude and now the frivolity has been transcribed into the written word for all of posterity. Heavy is the head…

Happy Halloween! Be safe and have fun in your Fancy Dress!!!

Cheers!

In the Queue with Qualls

On Life

I had a post written about Isaac and how he is in boot camp and how it’s the first time we have been apart as a family. It’s a bit of a tear-jerker. Quite frankly, I’m tired of crying. I’ve cried because I miss that kid like crazy. I have cried because I am overwhelmed at work. (They call the trunk of a car a boot. Extrapolate that out and you get how education might be extremely different as well.) I’ve cried for my girls when they have felt overwhelmed. I’ve cried because of hormones. I’ve cried. 

So, let’s move on. 

Today, I had a training day in a different part of London. It was called “acclimatization” training. There’s a great deal of irony here. It was just under 60 degrees Fahrenheit (I won’t do Celcius yet) when I left the house and clear, but it’s London. Someone sneezes and it starts raining. “Never leave home with it,” means rain coat and umbrella. But now, I’m literally underground, in my trench coat, in a heard of people. They are British so it is rather civilized. No eye contact. Never talk to anyone near you. And pretend this is what you do everyday of the week. 

I proceeded to transfer to a different subway line, and then walked at least half a mile through a small homeless camp to arrive at the building where my training was to be held. I was soaking wet and it hadn’t started raining yet. Thank God I’m still on my American strength deodorant. I found the bathroom (or toilet as they call it-they can be literal, just mostly choose not to be) just to take a moment to collect myself and attempt to look like a professional teacher, not a professional athlete. Toilet tissue came out as an attempt to absorb the aftermath of my trip. 

Ok. Breathing back to normal. Sweat was no longer pouring down my back. Progress. Until I began to wash my hands and I glimpsed in the mirror. There were a dozen small flecks of white all over my face and neck. Like I was a recently pubescent boy learning how to shave and my first attempt was my whole face. 

Remember when I said the day was about acclimatization training? I seriously thought of turning around and repeating the journey home. How much more acclimatization training can one person endure in a day? The queue alone was so incredibly British! But I stayed. The rest of the day was spent listening to a British lady who spoke rather fast and I spent half the time trying to decide if she was saying “half” or “have.” (More irony.) Remember I am a math teacher so the distinction is rather important. I’m not going to lie; I was thrilled when I thought the day was over. I finished my survey and enthusiastically headed for the door, only to find my acclimatization training was yet to be over. A short bus ride to the tube station and a quick switch to the second train when two stops in, the conductor comes on the intercom to say the train will no longer go to my stop, but will “terminate” early. We all pile off the subway, stand on the platform, again with a great deal of British decorum. I desperately wanted to ask someone if they thought the next train would actually come. They all stood so poised and assuming. They make sweatshirts that say “Keep calm and carry on” for an actually reason. It’s how they are. But in my American head, I was already planning two alternate roots. I could ditch the subway and find a series of buses that would get me home, or say, “screw it” and hail a cab. But today was after all, acclimatization training, so I held fast to the British decorum and continued to “carry on.” 

The next subway train came. Maybe it was the British who can claim the whole, “If you build they will come” ideology. We all got on, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred and of course, I had to process this. I’m standing again on a train I hope will get me to the literal end of the line and I realize today was really about one word–capacity. We spend a great deal of time determining if we are “glass half-full” or “glass half-empty” and I think we are obsessing about the wrong thing. We are asking the wrong question. Who cares how much is in your glass? (I’m tempted to insert a gin comment here.) The question you should be asking is this, “Am I allowing my ‘glass’ to grow?” 

We all think we have our capacities. We believe there are limits to patience, grace, strength, insert your word here. And consequently, we spend a great deal of energy managing the ends of those limits. “I’m running out of patience.” I felt that today. Standing on and off subway trains for almost two hours, but then I saw a little boy take the gum out of his mouth and proceed to wrap it around his thumb after he has subsequently touched every public surface within a foot radius. 

That made me chuckle. So much so that I actually made eye contact with the girl standing next to me who had obviously seen the same thing. Maybe I’m not almost out of patience. So then I had to think what if our limit is really only a construct, a feeling? What if, in reality, there’s an endless supply? Today’s training could have been a test. How acclimatized am I? If it’s a test, there is a limit. The glass will reach a certain measure. That’s it. Pass. Fail. The end. 

But maybe it’s not a test. What if it’s just an opportunity? A chance to change the capacity, to grow the glass a little, to stretch the boundaries.

I used to think patience was a string. It could be consumed. At some point I would run out. But now I’m not so sure. I think it might be a rubber band with a tremendous capacity to grow. Or maybe a piece of gum wrapped around and around and around your thumb. Maybe it has the capacity to keep going. Maybe we have that same capacity.

We all need a bit of acclimatization training now and then. It stretches us. Pun intended. 

The View

On Faith, On Life
an evening view

I have been thinking about my last post and I feel I need to paint a more accurate portrait of our current status. The last post shows the view from our rooftop terrace. That really is the view but there are two things that I feel may have been overlooked by the singular perspective. 

First addendum. My mattress currently resides on the floor. Sure, we have a great view, but I can literally roll out of bed onto the floor. Last night, my dog curled up next to me. That was a sobering moment. If my mattress is on the floor, do I really sleep on a giant dog bed? But 3 hours in the local IKEA store on the morning we got the okay to move into the house could only yield so much fruit. We had four carts (aka trolley) full of necessary items to sustain life in a house. I’m talking ice cream scooper, pots and pans, and other necessary housewares. We were fortunate enough to grab a few things for every room, including mattresses and sheets. Bailey was the only one ready to pull the trigger on a bed.

I was walking home from the bus stop the other day and thinking about what we left behind. We have rugs, and beds, and headboards, and a drawer full of kitchen utensils. I remember putting a large plastic box of Band-Aids into an even larger cardboard box to store in the garage in Nevada. I think it safe to say that counts as surplus. Thankfully, Bailey was insightful enough to bring some Band-Aids with us. I chose another pair of shoes above a box of Band-Aids which is ironic because that leads me into the second issue that needs rectifying.

I brought with me several pairs of heals. It’s what I wore to work in the States. But I drove to work everyday. Here, I ride the bus. Which also means I have to walk. No one would want to walk a mile in my shoes. I don’t want to walk in my shoes. My feet are killing me. I have had a neon blue Band-Aid on the back of my heel for a week now. Not covering a blister but an actual area where I rubbed the skin off. We traded the rural country drives, for the slick streets of London and the sometimes running to catch the next bus. The amazing rooftop view comes at a price.

The four of us hung out up there yesterday afternoon. It was a sunny day in London and perhaps the last one for a while. We can see a long ways into the distance. Alternately, if we look down, we can peer into the lives of our neighbors. It reminds me of the Hitchcock movie, “Rear Window.” For those of you who haven’t seen it, the moral of the story is don’t be a voyeur. We could easily be drawn from the expansive view by the daily, often mundane routines happening around us. But thanks to Mr. Hitchcock, we know that generally doesn’t end well. 

Here’s what I see when I look down, metaphorically. I’m super stressed at work. There are a couple of classes where I have spent far more time teaching behavior and impulse control than math. It’s so frustrating! And in my forty plus minute commute to and from work, I have time to reflect. There are days when I struggle to see anything more than the mundane task of behavior management. It becomes a cycle where I feel ineffectual as a math teacher and then I’m falling down the rabbit hole where my current life choices come under intense scrutiny. I could be in Nevada with a bed off the floor, more kitchen utensils, and a house full of stuff, not to mention several pairs of boots I left behind. 

I know I’m not alone in this. Literally, I have three other people here struggling on different days with similar issues. We have replaced the familiar with everything that is not familiar. And in the moments of high stress, it’s so important for me to take high ground. To stand on the terrace and look out as far as possible. In the future my foot will heal. In the future, the consistent and patient care of my students will reap reward. In the future, the unfamiliar will grow to be familiar. In the future, I will have a bed off the floor. While I can’t live in the future, I can allow a bigger perspective to breathe hope into the chaos of the present. And I’ve found an amazing thing happens. It isn’t limbo to live between the chaos of the present and the hope for a different future. I think this middle ground is a garden that grows gratitude. I’m far more grateful for the smile or greeting from a student. For the moments of laughter with colleagues. For a seat on the bus on the way home. 

I find myself saying this a lot. Through different stories or blog posts, I apologize for repeating myself. But I need to be reminded so often. Reminded how my perspective, what I choose to look at, makes all the difference.  

P.S. Since I started writing this post, we have obtained beds. Just didn’t want anyone to worry unnecessarily. 

Sometimes it’s about the destination

On Life,
our view
The view from our rooftop terrace

If you are flying off to some tropical location, do you reflect on the flight to get there? Is there some life lesson in the movie choices you made to endure the crying child three rows ahead of you and the rude man behind you kicking your seat? 

If you get a flat tire on your way to work, do you stop to analyze the metaphorical lessons while some stranger (saint) stops to help you change your tire?

We have made a point to wax eloquently about the journey. It was Ralph Waldo Emerson who graced us with the oft-used quote. “Life is a journey, not a destination.” We have proceeded (myself included) to alter this quote to something like, “It’s about the journey, not the destination.” 

And by alter, I mean butcher. Sometimes, it’s about the destination. Sometimes, it’s about gritting your teeth, taking multiple deep breaths, and pushing your limits to get to the other side.

We moved out of our house on July 31st, so we could rent it. It seemed like a good idea at the time. We could travel through California, saying good-bye, staying with friends and family, then arrive in the UK, find a house and settle in. 

We just moved in today. For those of you unaware of the date, or reading far beyond the publish date, that’s five and a half weeks. Over two weeks was spent in hotel rooms. With 12 suitcases. And not suites. Just a room. With four people. And two dogs. One bathroom. I don’t even think Picasso could encapsulate the sheer stress of such an arrangement. 

Five and a half weeks was a journey. I’m sure at some point, we will reflect on the journey. Possibly there will be laughter. Possibly. But at the moment, there are genuine sighs of relief. There are four people spreading out and maximizing personal space. We are a family again, cooking in our own kitchen, making our own plans. Closing doors to keep out the world.

And know, that the last five and a half weeks, there has been teeth gritting, deep breath taking, and pushing on despite how we feel. And for those of you who are smug, wondering if I get the lessons we have learned, the answer is yes. But I won’t even start a conversation about this until I have showered in my own shower for five and a half weeks. That seems fair doesn’t it?

Oh, and our son left today for boot camp. In three months I will be a Marine Mom. And for the record, I will be telling him (only in letters as I can’t talk to him for three months) to grit his teeth, take deep breaths, and keep pushing because he too will get to the destination. Because, sometimes, in the moment, it’s really just about the destination.

But tomorrow, there’s coffee

On Faith, On Life
coffee please!

It’s late here. Almost 11 pm. Or as they would say here, 23:00. (We call it military time. They just call it time. I’m sure there’s a witty quip in there somewhere but did I mention it’s late?!) The offer for the house was declined. They won’t accept pets. We went through a great deal of trouble, and expense, to get 2 dogs here. It would be a shame to give them away now! Haha! Buddy (one of the dogs) keeps looking at me like he somehow knows I have even suggested such a horrendous idea!

Buddy
I’m not going anywhere.

So the hunt continued today. Six houses, none of course next to each other. We drove and drove and drove. Had words with the navigation app. As the bird flies it is only say 12 miles, but nothing in London is direct so we actually drive 20 to get there. We are all exhausted. However, the evening ended with the four of us (we miss you Isaac!) sitting around a table, eating moderately tasteful food (which is rather high praise at this point), and discussing the pros and cons. The conversation led to choosing another house. Once again, we cross our fingers, say a prayer, and take a deep breath.

Oh, and today, David and I braved a Laundromat. I’m sure they won’t quickly forget us as we were the ones who accidentally put a Euro in the machine instead of a Pound. They had to call in the repair guy. He was quite jovial about it and in our defense the two coins (bills don’t start here until 5 Pounds) look remarkably similar and feel quite the same. We apologized profusely. I’m sure they think we are nuts. Now the consensus is the same in at least two countries! 

We are told so often to live in the now, enjoy the journey…I’m trying but I’m not going to lie. I’m so looking forward to familiar coffee in the morning. We stopped at a store to purchase a sort of French press, Starbucks ground coffee, cream, and mugs. There’s a hot water pot in the hotel room because the British are bonkers for tea.

It was a long day. We still don’t have a home. Our lives reduced to suitcases stacked in a hotel room…but tomorrow, there’s coffee! 

No More Purple Mountains

On Faith, On Life

Smith, Nevada
Purple mountains

When we first moved to Nevada almost 7 years ago, I was struck by the stark beauty. “Purple mountains majesty” are really a thing. I remember standing in the cold, 14 degrees to be exact, watching our little kiddos at the time, sled down a sand hill covered in snow. Surrounded by high desert, lungs and toes objecting to the cold, I couldn’t help but think of the Israelites as they left Egypt.

(Some of you may not know this but I’m a bit of a Bible geek. Hang in there. I promise there’s a point.)

The Israelites leave Egypt. This nation within a nation, leave the only home they have known for generations. They end up in the desert, surrounded now by the majesty of creation. No doubt a huge contrast to the opulence and grandeur that they had grown accustomed to in Egypt. Confronted now with the unmistakable magnificence of the ordinary, they began a journey. Their journey was to last 40 years and I have always found that exhaustive and oddly specific. While I cannot speak still to the length, perhaps I am beginning to understand the reason. Maybe it wasn’t enough for them just to see something different. Maybe they needed to be pulled far outside their comfort zone. A reboot sort of.

We left our home in Nevada on July 31. The hospitality and graciousness of friends and family has been overwhelming and so greatly appreciated. But we have been nomads. We’ve sold cars and belongings, whittling our existence down to 12 suitcases, a rental car, two dogs, and a hope of someday having some space to call our own again. Three weeks of being stretched outside our comfort zone. And as I think of the Israelites wandering for 40 years, it makes a bit more sense. If we had jumped straight from Nevada house to London house, there would inevitably be a fair bit of comparing. Well in Nevada we had…It would be human nature to want to go back to the Nevada house. The familiar. Our home. But now, perhaps we are all so tired of traveling, the greater response may simply be gratitude. Hearts that are thankful to have space again, a place to call home, a chance to settle. A reboot sort of.

The house hunt begins tomorrow. An archaic boots on the ground approach. You know how you walk through towns you may be stopping over in and there always seems to be the reality agent on main street with houses taped to the window? I’m hoping there’s a UK equivalent. And yes, we know about the internet. But it’s a house we are picking. A neighborhood, a community. Boots on the ground seems appropriate. (And at this point, a chance to get out of the tiny hotel room.)

At this point, I’m praying our nomadic journey is nearly done. In search of 3 bedroom home, 2 baths (we have teenage daughters), pet friendly, and some furniture would be amazing!

The hunt begins tomorrow.

A Lesson from Knots

On Life,

https://www.flickr.com/people/blondinrikard/

After two weeks of living out of suitcases, lugging around multiple other suitcases, teaching our dogs to travel, and living under the nervous cloud of expectation about whether our travel plans would work out, I was feeling a bit overwhelmed. But it wasn’t just me. We are all feeling it. None of us have our own space. We are grateful to friends and family who have housed us and offered unparalleled hospitality but we are tired. Patience waning, butts sore from hours spent in the car, and we really only have dirty clothes to measure our progress to date.

So, I started laundry. As I pulled the first load out of the washing machine, I found a pair of panties that were tied in a knot. True story. Not an analogous knot, an actual knot. I won’t wander down the rabbit trail of how and why. Instead, I’m going to jump straight to the obvious metaphor.

This random and remarkable discovery gave me pause. Literally, I had to pause the transfer of laundry into the dryer to untie the knot. In that brief act, I learned a valuable lesson. One that has taken me a few days to practice and truth-be-told, I’m still trying to master it.

Here it is…I’ll walk you through it.

When your panties end up in a knot,

try these three easy steps…

  1.   Take a deep breath. A seemingly obvious choice and hopefully most often subconscious but when the unexpected strikes, the conscious choice to breathe deeply provides a moment of space. A chance to set aside the why or how and refocus attention to the immediate issue at hand. 
  2. Patiently untie the knot. It has to be done. You are the one holding the knot, so carefully get the panties out of the twist. Set them free.
  3. Finally, move on. It happened. Yes, it was unforeseenand apparently unavoidable because panty knots can be an actual thing. Oh, and I have found it very helpful to take a moment to practice gratitude. Thank God the knot didn’t happen while wearing them.

As I mentioned, I’m still practicing the steps on more metaphorical panty knots. We still don’t have our visas. The deadline is noon today. It’s our deadline and a rather long story, a boring one. A story about expectations and “best-laid plans” and such. Long story short, I may spend today cancelling travel plans and transferring us further into limbo. But now I have three easy steps to help. And I commit to practicing today.

Any steps I missed? Feel free to share!

The Best-Laid-Plans

On Life,
Photo Credit: "Keep calm and carry on", © 2009 Derek Keats, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio

The best-laid-plans…Ironically, this is a phrase coined by a Scottish poet in the 18th century. (Once again, truth refuses to age.) Robert Burns tells of a farmer who unearths a mouse’s nest while plowing a field. I think perhaps a more modern approach might be the phrase, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Both of these well used phrases could easily describe the day I’ve had. It’s a rather tedious story about the logistics of moving across the pond and the oodles of migration paperwork. (This could be an easy mark to go adrift into the political weeds of immigration in general but then we would miss the point.)

For the last few months, we have planned. It’s sort of like a target. The further away one is from the intended action, the more vague the planning. The basics are talked through. Should we sell our home or rent it? Can I find a job? What happens if I can’t? The general aspects are ironed out and we move to the next concentric circle. One step closer to the thing.

We are rather close to the center now. We leave our home in 9 days. I spent the morning filling out visa applications and realizing that our well-planned itinerary may come crashing down around us. What happens if the visas don’t get approved before we are scheduled to fly out and we have to change our tickets? What happens if I miss my training? How much is it going to cost to change the tickets for the dogs? (Yes, as if taking 4 people isn’t challenge enough.)

The spinning begins. The stress meter tops out and darkness and despair descend like a chaotic fog. Quickly the questions change from how to why. Why are we doing this again? A question I have been asked frequently and for good reason. A question I have had to revisit myself today as I watch the best-laid-plans get doused with gasoline.

Several years ago our daughters expressed an interest in studying abroad. David and I encouraged the idea then realized we would be sacrificing a whole year we could be spending with them. He came up with the brilliant idea that I teach math (maths if you are in the UK) somewhere abroad and we take them on this adventure. Bailey and Ryan were fairly persistent, encouraging this idea of moving to another country. The discussion of a few years ago brought us to this point of visas, and packing, and leaving in 9 days.

Each one of us has had breakdown moments in the past few months. Sudden realizations that our lives are about to drastically change. (Oh and did I mention Isaac is going to be a Marine? Can we add that to the mix?) I find myself having to lean into the advice I have given others. Remember. As the stress of the unknown looms overwhelmingly, breathe and remember. This is what I tell myself…”Remember the specific times you have overcome difficulty. Remember the hurdles you have already cleared getting to this point. Remember why you started this thing in the first place.” The landscape of the adventure may have changed drastically, but the heart you had when you took your first step has not.

We leave in 9 days. And truthfully, I’m not sure how it’s all going to work out. But I remember why. So, best-laid-plans be damned. We jump ship in 9 days (metaphorically, of course) and these best-laid-plans will turn into stories and moments to remember as we stand on the precipice of the next adventure. (Insert deep breath here.) Or as the Brits would say, “Keep calm and carry on.”